The Famous Comrades Marathon

Fifty-five brutal miles. Five torturous climbs. A ruthless clock. The Comrades Marathon may be the world's greatest race. But not because it's easy

Every run is a new adventure, and every race, like a Rorschach, exists only to expose some piece of us. The greater the race distance, the deeper the unpeeling. This makes South Africa's mountainous 55-mile Comrades Marathon a long and probing quest. I first heard about Comrades' length, hills, and amazing traditions four decades ago. Since then I have considered it the world's greatest footrace. But until last June, I didn't realize how much a race could reveal to me. Of me. Some races are humbling; this one stripped me bare.

The distance alone makes Comrades intimidating. The infamous climbs make it torturous. At midway, the course snakes upward through the Valley of a Thousand Hills, an English appellation as accurate as it is terrifying. This is the heart of KwaZulu-Natal province. The mightiest of these ascents is Inchanga, an unnerving drumroll of a Zulu word. Just beyond lie the Drakensberg Mountains, which gave life to the most famous lines of South African literature–lines that never fail to stun me with their simple beauty. Alan Paton was still director of a reform school when he wrote them on the first page of his masterwork, Cry, the Beloved Country: "There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it."

Last June, as I ran and walked through the Valley of a Thousand Hills, I snatched glances into the distant Drakensbergs and thought about Paton. He got it right. These hills are dazzling indeed–a crescendo of one sweet green slope rising above another. They are interrupted only by a few tumbling rivers, like the Duzi and Umgeni, and by white puffs of smoke from clusters of clay huts with thatch roofs. Looking out at these hills, I felt transported to a lush, untrammeled, and bygone era.

But then my hard, raspy breathing clawed me back. I heard groans and imprecations from runners around me. And I had a different thought: Paton was a novelist-poet. He took the train, for goodness sake, never once attempting to run these horrid hills. If he had, he would have seen them in another light. Trust me.

I don't know my way around durban, a sort of south African Miami Beach, but no matter. On Comrades Marathon morning, I simply walk out my hotel's back door at 4:30 a.m. and follow everyone else toward the starting line a mile away. The pace is relaxed now, no need to hurry. I have time to consider what brought me here.

The answer couldn't be simpler. The way I figure it, Comrades has to be the world's greatest race. I mean, it's 55 miles long–the type of distance that usually lures about, oh, 71 runners. Comrades has enough magnetism to draw 12,000. Plus, it has the most extraordinary traditions. There's the matter of race numbers and their colors, for instance. International runners get blue ones. Runners in their 10th Comrades wear yellow. You complete 10 and you get a green number for all future entries. You own this number. In perpetuity. No one but you will wear it again. Ever.

There's also the dramatic course closure that occurs precisely 12 hours after the start–that's a Comrades tradition some runners, for sure, could do without (see "Sorry, But..."). But perhaps the greatest of Comrades's rituals is the course switcheroo. In odd years the course drops down 2,300 feet from Pietermaritzburg to Durban. The next year it reverses itself, scrambling up into the hills. Try to imagine the Boston Marathon pulling this off. I ran Comrades once previously, in 1993, a Down year; last June's Up race was like a new and completely different experience, full of unexpected challenges.

En route to the starting line, I stop counting Comrades traditions when the music begins. No other race produces such an astonishing sound mix. A gaggle of South African club runners jogs past, singing high harmonies in the manner of Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Three months earlier, I had told a Ladysmith member that I was headed to Comrades. He shook his head slowly and let out a soft whistle. He knew about the race. Everyone in South Africa is a Comrades aficionado, thanks to the continuous 12-hour live national TV coverage. Twelve hours. Live. National TV.

This accounts for the brilliant spotlights that bathe us at the start, where the runners break into a spontaneous rendition of "Shosholoza." It's an old Zulu mining song, and its title means, roughly, "Keep going. Move faster on those mountains." It's followed by the pulsing Chariots of Fire theme. But all ears eagerly await the next sound, a cock's crow. In 1948, on the morning of his eighth Comrades, local runner Max Trimborn, one of 44 entrants that year, couldn't contain his nervous energy on the starting line. He needed to do something...anything. So he cupped his hands, filled his lungs, and issued a lusty rooster crow. The other runners so enjoyed this homey touch that they demanded repeat performances in subsequent years. Trimborn obliged for the next 32, sometimes adorning himself with feathers and a rooster vest. By the time of his death in 1985, Trimborn's crowing had been preserved on tape. These days, greatly amplified, it still starts the Comrades Marathon: "Cock-A-Doodle...Go!"

A race this long demands a plan and a goal. I've got both, but mainly the latter. The plan is to take it easy. (Duh.) While I haven't done any long runs, I'm in good shape, based on a recent 1:29 half-marathon. I aim to extend my endurance with walking breaks. When I feel good, I'll run. When I get tired, I'll walk. You see how easy these ultramarathons are?